


Relax Your Mind

by ggwynbleidd, metalitaph



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: 90s setting, Alcohol, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abuse, Preklok, Secret Relationship, it's complicated - Freeform, neurodivergent character, past Charles/OMC - Freeform, past Charles/Pickles, past Magnus/OFC, past Magnus/OMC, past Magnus/Pickles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29048313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ggwynbleidd/pseuds/ggwynbleidd, https://archiveofourown.org/users/metalitaph/pseuds/metalitaph
Summary: Back in the mid-nineties, before the signing, before any knife-based incidents, Dethklok never seemed to notice that their manager and one of their guitarists had gotten close, which was on purpose. Magnus and Charles were both very private men after all. A collaborative effort showcasing what it's like trying to make it big in the music industry, with the added complications of unexpected emotions after a night drinking.
Relationships: Magnus Hammersmith/Charles Foster Offdensen
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	1. 1987

**Author's Note:**

> Note: this chapter contains drug use, alcohol use and non-graphic discussions of past partner abuse.

It felt like it was a better idea to sit and hide under his blankets. It was easier. Because Charles was, what, too embarrassing and boring to be seen in public? There wasn’t a hysterical fever pitch of drama that he heard was attached to breakups but more of malaise. That was the best way to put it. Just a numbness that made his bed the most inviting thing ever. So Charles would get up out of bed, drag himself to class and work and then head back to his apartment.

“Get up.”

Charles tugs his comforter up to his chin defensively and peers at the door to his room with narrowed eyes. Sofia stands there, hands on her hips, looking smug. Like she’s cracked some kind of code.

“Why?” Charles asks in a soft, morose voice.

“We have a party to go to!” she announces as she walks into Charles’ room. She tugs on the bottom of his sheets and he feels them slip from his fingers. “Remember?”

Charles sits up and can’t help but sigh dramatically. She wasn’t wrong. There was in fact a party that he needed to go to. Networking. He had committed to it before Lyle had left. Social obligations that he would look bad for backing out of last minute.

“Alright, fine,” he looks up at her and forces a smile. “You invite anyone to come with us?”

“Roddy,” Sofia blushes a bit, scuffing the carpet with the point of her heel. “But I told him not to tell anyone else, honest! I know it’s some big, secret thing. Because heaven forbid we bother the man himself-”

“Don’t talk about him like that and it’ll be fine, I think,” Charles rolls his eyes as he pulls on a button-up shirt. “He’s just a normal person.”

A normal person with a lot of money, and who was famous, and who had for some reason invited Charles to a party. Not that it was just Charles and it wasn’t just a simple house. He was familiar with the neighborhood and he was familiar with the band. But Charles wanted to elbow his way into the music industry after graduation, so the least he could do was network with musicians. As daunting as that sounded. It had been bad enough when he literally smacked into him when Charles was just trying to talk with the opening band.

“Is he tall?” Sofia asks with a giggle, twirling hair between her fingers.

“About my height,” Charles replies as he slides on freshly ironed slacks. He looks at Sofia, holds out his arms expectantly and then ruffles his hair. “Should I worry too much about this? I need a haircut anyway.”

“Put some mousse in it and you’ll be okay,” she waves her hand. “And he’s short? I thought he was tall! He’s about the same height as the other guys. At least in the photos-”

Charles shrugs.

“Pickles is the only one of them who wears platforms, though, isn’t he?” he asks.

Sofia stands and in her own heels stands a little bit above Charles as well. She ruffles his hair again and just shrugs her shoulders in a silent acceptance of what Charles had said. Maybe it hadn’t ruined her fantasy of him totally. If so, there were three other members of Snakes ‘n’ Barrels to pick from.

Charles knows she’s gonna have a good time.

“And that other band is gonna be there too? Uh, fuck, what was it?” Sofia snaps her fingers trying to remember as they walk to the bathroom, Charles slipping inside to brush his teeth and try to fix up his hair. “The one you wanted to talk with.”

“Glass Sword,” replies Charles as he runs a comb through his hair. “They, ah, already had...people, so-”

“They’re opening for a band that’s toured places like Japan and shit, Chuck, they aren’t gonna need a new manager,” she shakes her head sadly, picks a piece of fuzz off of Charles’ shoulder. “You can’t just wander up to a band and ask if they want a manager and get the job.”

Charles just shrugs and tries to put his hair into place before finally giving up. Sofia rolls her eyes at that and suddenly Charles is standing dumbly as she rakes wet fingers through his hair, pushes product into it and combs it into place.

“There, Jesus,” she teases, rinsing her hands off under the sink. “You look cute enough to be cruised at a rockstar’s party.”

“Sofie-” Charles stammers as he feels heat creep into his face. That isn’t-”

Sofia just hums a little noise through her nose. A little, knowing noise.

“I mean, there’s rumors Pickles goes for anybody. And, uh, that one dude...the drummer,” Sofia gestures vaguely. “But they say he has two dicks on account of the twin skins thing, so…”

“So rumor doesn’t mean anything,” Charles says as he shoulders her out of the room, passing to grab his jacket.

“It’s 96 degrees out,” Sofia corrects him.

“It’ll get cold when it’s late,” he retorts.

“It’ll get 70 degrees at the coldest,” she smirks, patting his back as she heads to the door.

Charles’ jacket is left on its hook. He’s newer to the area and even though August is still boiling hot, he expects it to be cool at night. Roddy is outside already with his car idling next to Sofia’s, Charles climbing in the backseat as Sofia sits shotgun.

“How’s it been, guys?” Roddy asks casually, hand resting behind Sofia’s headrest as he pulls out of the parking space. “Y’know where this place is, Chuck?”

“M-hm, it’s uh…” Charles reaches in his pockets for the address, written on a notepad page. It was originally on a napkin that was smudged with liquor. “984 Perham Street, up in-”

“Oh up in the rich part of fuckin’ town!” Roddy calls out. “Goddamn I know it, fuck, man, I look like-”

“Like shit, I know,” Sofia gestures to Roddy’s dirty work pants. “What, you expecting a fucking rockstar to rent a crack den?”

Roddy laughs and Charles jumps as Sofia cranks the car stereo up.

_I’m not a prude (No!)  
I just want some respect (That’s right!)_

“Janet Jackson?” Sofia laughs. “Oh my God, Rod-”

“It’s my sisters!” Roddy is turning bright red as he speaks and he turns to look at Charles. “P...pick a cassette in the back, man, quick.”

Charles looks in the cassette case. The first things that he sees are Metallica and funnily enough, Snakes ‘n’ Barrels. He thinks for a moment. It seems too dorky and try-hard to be blasting the band’s own music when they arrive. He wants to be cool. Or at least pretend he’s cool. So he passes over the Metallica one instead.

The car ride is almost uneventful. Boring, even, and Charles prefers to sit back and be quiet while Roddy and Sofia have their usual back and forth. It was at least entertaining to listen to - both were smartasses in their own way, and too similar.

“We should stop by the store,” Sofia suddenly announces. “Get some eggs. Stop by Lyle’s place when we head back home. It’s on the way.”

“Sofia-” Charles begins in the back.

“That’s an idea,” Roddy nods. He cuts his eyes at Charles from the rearview mirror. “Fucking asshole. Glad you dropped him.”

Charles doesn’t have the strength to correct Roddy and tell him that he was the one who was dropped.

“W-we don’t need to do all that,” Charles laughs awkwardly as he scratches the back of his neck.

“Your tune will change when you’re drunk and vengeful tonight,” Sofia says with a laugh.

“Maybe I’ll just forget about him?” he suggests hopefully. “I, uh, I’ll have some band to worry about...make new connections. Friends. Not worry about...him, you know?”

Sofia pauses. Taps her finger to her chin in thought.

“Fair enough,” she decides.

“I wanna fuck up his mailbox,” Roddy interjects. “Revenge is a dish best served cold ‘n’ all.”

“Because revenge worked so well for Khan, right?” Charles says with a laugh. “It’s stupid. Don’t worry about me like that.”

Roddy scoffs and shrugs his shoulders. Charles watches the progression of smaller apartment buildings to suburban houses to gated communities, his nervousness growing with each passing neighborhood. The driveway of a more modern home that loomed at the top of a hill caught Charles’ attention the most. Especially the gate.

There it was. Cars piled up in the garage and outside in the driveway, music could be heard drifting from open doors and windows, people lounging in swimsuits around a pool. A real, honest-to-God rockstar party.

“You got an invite?” the guard at the gate asks Roddy, who looks back helplessly at Charles.

“Right here!” Charles offers, leaning forward and flashing the invite with a smile. Pickles’ signature and a stamp of a little snake.

The guard at the gate takes it, turns it in his hands and examines it, before nodding and putting it somewhere in his desk Charles couldn’t see. Pickles had explained the process to him - show that to security and don’t get it back so it couldn’t be duplicated. They were one time use only, each party or event getting new cards printed with new stamps.

Pickles had also explained that it was for friends, girlfriends and groupies.

Charles had kept that in mind.

Roddy peers over the steering wheel as he drives through narrowly parked cars and motorcycles, trying not to ding any of them. Charles sees the cars they pass and it somehow makes him even more nervous. Bright cherry reds and sunflower yellows, acid greens and a few deep plum purples. Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Lotuses, Mustangs, Porsches. All things a little Volvo should not be bumping into trying to park.

But park he does, safe and sound, Sofia the first to clamber out of the car. She smooths out her skirt and shirt before primping feathered and curled hair. Charles steps out and almost immediately has to catch her, the gravel they had parked over slipping under the pointed heel of her shoe and making her ankle roll.

“Thanks, Chuck,” her voice comes out as a little purr, arm wrapping around his and hooking him to her side. “How do I look, Roddy?”

“Fine, I guess,” Roddy shrugs with a smile on his face. Sofia fakes a pout. “You look adorable. Cute enough to get the clap from Tony Dimarco, at least.”

“Holy shit, Rod!” she scoffs as Roddy joins the two of them. “If I’m gonna get the clap from a rockstar, it had better not be from the _bassist_!”

Charles laughs through his nose as Sofia laughs at her own joke, her head going back in the air before starting to walk. He’s dragged along with her, acting like a seeing eye person across the gravel and grass and even up the steps to the door.

The front door opens and despite the sun that’s still up in the sky, the inside of the house is dark. Lights flash in bright neon points from the ceiling, bouncing off of smoke hanging near the ceiling, music blasting at top volume. There’s mingling smells of perfumes and colognes and the unmistakable skunky smell of weed, people dancing and mingling. It’s more like a club than a house.

And it was a lot of house. Sprawling with two levels, Glass Sword and Snakes ‘n’ Barrels alike probably lost in the vast crowds of people. Sofia tugs at Charles’ arm, pulls him from the doorway and they dive into the kitchen. It has a slightly calmer atmosphere than the foyer does and Charles is immediately relieved. A few girls wave at him and Roddy and he waves back, feeling a pit of embarrassment form in his stomach when two of them whisper and giggle at each other.

And then Sofia grabs a bottle of gin and a bottle of Pepsi.

“This is a terrible fucking combo, Sofe,” Roddy comments. But he still takes the red cup handed to him and takes a sip. “Jesus, you’re gonna kill us.”

“I’m gonna get us drunk,” Sofia corrects as she hands Charles his drink. “If you can remember tonight, we didn’t do it right.”

Charles thinks for a moment before swallowing down some of his own drink. The juniper of the gin and the caramel of the soda mix in a downright terrible way and even though the gin is top shelf, Sofia has mixed enough in for it to still burn.

She might actually kill them tonight.

Charles takes another sip of his drink already. Social lubricant. He won’t get absolutely trashed tonight. That’s not in his plans for tonight at all, but he does hope that maybe if he gets pleasantly tipsy he’ll be easier to talk with. Easier to make connections that way. Glass Sword is, after all, a mostly local band from what he remembers. So while they don’t need a manager, surely somebody else in the area would? He isn’t even entirely sure if that would work out well.

Maybe a party could be for fun. Networking could come from him having fun. Maybe years down the line, a friend he makes here tonight will help him out in some way. That’s how he rationalizes it to himself as he takes another sip from his drink and awkwardly wanders behind Sofia and Roddy as they start to mingle. Voices and music all tangle together in an especially hellish web of noise that only seems to get worse as Charles drinks. He’s not sure if he has the start of a migraine or if he’s just too much of a square to really sit down and deal with this sort of lifestyle.

Perhaps the rockstar life isn’t for him.

That thought hits him especially hard as he’s hit in the face with a puff of smoke. Acrid, something like a skunk that got particularly startled, definitely not tobacco.

“Wanna hit?” the stranger offers with a grin, smoke pouring from his teeth like he’s a Halloween decoration.

“Uh-” Charles pauses and suddenly there’s a joint smoldering in between his fingers. “Thanks.”

He’s smoked before. He’s not some kind of narc. He does like to socially smoke cigarettes. This kind of smoking, though, he prefers to do in the comfort and privacy of his own room, with maybe a friend or two. Mainly just Sofia, because once she gets a smell of the stuff she makes herself at home on his bed and pouts until she gets a hit. But all the same he takes a pull and holds it in his lungs. There’s a burn in his chest as he does and the smoke comes out in a little hacking cough. He hands it back to the stranger, who simply jerks his head to Sofia, and she takes it in turn.

“Turning into a real natural,” Sofia teases as she exhales.

Charles laughs and takes another swig from his cup to quell the burning in his throat. It’s getting easier to deal with things now. He’s not sure if it’s just him actually relaxing or if he’s already under the influence. He’s a bit of a lightweight - he won’t lie about that, he can’t lie about it all things considered. Time goes on without much incident. He lets Sofia and Roddy both cover conversations for the most part, weighing in when asked questions and giving the odd opinion or two when needed. An hour or so passes without any sort of...anything, happening. It's not as wild as he expected from a rockstar's party. It's pretty active for him but at the same time any kind of house party is usually quite a lot for him as well.

And then there's a crash that draws everyone's attention. A person falling down the steps with a clatter and a cackle, a shattering of glass as a bong falls onto the tile floor below.

"Oh, fuck!" a woozy voice calls over the music.

Charles elbows his ways through curiously and peers at the mess.

"Are you alright?" he asks loudly, leaning down and offering a hand.

"Yeah, man!" Pickles (real, in the flesh, from Snakes 'n' Barrels Pickles) says with a wide grin as he takes Charles' hand and lets himself be pulled up. Charles is surprised to see him almost eye level with him - he really isn't much taller than him. And in high boots still, too. "Do I know you? You look real familiar."

"You, uh, well...you invited me," replies Charles shyly. "I was at the show, recently, with Glass Sword. I was trying to talk with them and I ran into-"

"Charles!" he announces with gusto, taking him into his arms and squeezing him. "Aw, fuck, come into the kitchen with me, man, while I get some more drinks."

So...Charles does. He dutifully trots after Pickles into the kitchen, people clearing the way for them as they do, and he's thrilled to see that the kitchen is mostly empty. Mostly.

"Where did my gin go?" slurs Pickles softly. It's more to himself than Charles and Charles is thankful for that - he's pretty sure that Sofia is the one who took the gin in the first place. "Ahhh, fuck it, I'll grab the vodka. Tony can deal. Can you grab a couple of six packs from the fridge?"

"Which ones?" asks Charles. Then pauses. "Uh...which...which fridge?"

"Oh, yeah, uh...the one on the left," Pickles gestures vaguely. "And the Stella, of course. Not any of that piss. That's for the regular guests."

Regular guests? But Charles listens and grabs two of the six-packs all the same, following Pickles in confusion again as they head up the steps. He realizes suddenly that Sofia and Roddy are somehow lost to him in the crowds of people, drowning in bodies, smoke, liquor.

He's going upstairs with Pickles. To where Pickles is partying.

Everything is almost quieter when Charles gets to the top of the steps. He breathes a sigh of relief and as he inhales he realizes that all of the smoke from downstairs rose all the way up to the second floor. He coughs a little bit and Pickles laughs.

"You shoulda come up and said hi when you got here, dude!" Pickles teases as he elbows his way into a room. There's less people, but still plenty of people to elbow. "Got more booze!"

There's a few dulled, muted cheers as Charles walks into the room. The beers are set on a table nearby and he suddenly finds himself almost in the middle of a room full of what he could only call the real deal. He can see Tony DiMarco-Thunderbottom out of the corner of his eyes, a few girls hanging off of him, a wisp of blonde hair that might be the drummer and Pickles is by his side.

Well, here he was. His chance of networking. So he was going to network.

"I wasn't told where you were," Charles offers weakly. He gives Pickles a small smile and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Gah, fuckin' security. Dumb pieces of shit. I gave you the one with the good stamp, right? Or maybe I didn't...I dunno. I was a little drunk then," there's a little giggle from Pickles as he talks. But he still claps a hand on Charles' back again and pulls him towards a sofa to settle onto.

He's almost yanked onto the sofa himself as Pickles sits down on it. It's plush and comfortable, only has a few holes burned into it and it's occupied by two other people. A guy and a girl - the former long and skinny, the latter short and curvy. Both obviously a part of "the scene" and both fairly laid back, almost melting into the cushions. They both look cool, the girl with dyed hair and exaggerated makeup and boots, while the guy has torn jeans and a leather jacket with patches on it.

"Wait, what happened to your face again?" Pickles asks suddenly as he leans over, apparently picking up a conversation that he had wandered away from at some point. Charles can’t help but peek at the bruises on both of the strangers’ faces.

"I said I don't wanna talk about it, is what happened," the guy seated with them says in turn. He gestures at the bruise and the bandage on his face before the hand wanders to long, curly hair. "It's nothin', man, like...fuckin'...quit pesterin' me about it."

"God, chill, Jesus. Sorry I was worried about your goddamn well being," Pickles jeers. "Smack him for me, honey."

The girl rolls her eyes and simply crosses her legs, a pointed heel digging into Pickles' leg in a friendly almost-kick.

"Who is this?" she asks as she leans forward to peer around Pickles at Charles. "Your new friend is dressed awfully nice."

"Th-thanks?" replies Charles quietly. And is met with a laugh. In a sea of denim, leather, latex, lace and various other materials...maybe a button up shirt and khakis were a little out of place. But he brushes it off. "I'm Charles. Nice to meet you...?"

"Skye," she smiles with pointed canines. Charles had picked up on the lisp. "Like the thing above us, but with an e at the end. This is-"

"Magnus," he cuts her off before she can even finish speaking. He itches at the bandage on his face and he looks at Charles a little quizzically. "You know Pickles?"

"Yeah!" Pickles is off, talking over Charles. "He was at the show recently, was sulkin' around backstage tryin' to talk with Glass Sword to like, I dunno...what were you doing dude? Eh, doesn't matter I guess. But he bumped into me and well, I really like him. So I invited him and he's a new friend and well-"

Pickles wraps his arms around Charles in a hug, teased and feathered hair made itchy by AquaNet and pressed against Charles' face like a red, prickly bush. He looks at Skye and Magnus who still eye him a bit judgmentally and he finds himself wishing he was back with Roddy and Sofia.

"H-how do you guys know Pickles?" Charles asks in turn as he looks at Skye with a smile.

"I played bass in a band with the guitarist for Glass Sword, we're friends. And now he's out here in the big leagues," Skye grins and gestures at everything going on around them. Big leagues indeed. She suddenly stands up with a grunt, smoothing out the front of her skirt. "Speaking of, I need to hunt Garland down. You boys sit tight."

Charles waves a little bit as she walks by in a cloud of perfume and a click-clack of heavy boots on the wood floor. Pickles is waved over by someone else (Charles is fairly sure he's another member of the local scene, he's heard talk about him before at the very least) and he finds himself suddenly alone on this sofa. Well, not alone, but more just sitting with someone looks like he’s about to disappear into the sofa if he slouches more.

"Hey," Magnus says softly, turning his head over at Charles. "You want more drinks?"

Charles looks and sees that the beers he brought up, and the vodka too, have disappeared over the short period of time that he's been up here. He looks back at Magnus with a little shrug. It couldn't hurt. So they stand and head back down to the kitchen.

And Magnus stumbles. Maybe he miscounted how many steps there were, or he was too drunk, or something, but he also ended up on the bottom of the steps holding his arm.

"Fuck!" he groans.

"Are you okay?" Charles asks nervously, helping him stand. And stand. And stand. It took him a second to really take in how tall this guy was - at least a foot taller than him.

"I...man, I dunno," Magnus is suddenly holding his head and the bandage on his face has a red spot bloom on the white of the gauze.

Maybe he shouldn't be at a party. That's what Charles reasons. He definitely should not be at a party all things considered. He seems miserable and drunk and like his head hurts.

"Here, follow me," Charles urges softly as he tugs on Magnus' jacket and leads him to a bathroom in the hall.

When the door shuts it's like the world suddenly dies out. It's just the two of them in this tiny, cramped room. Charles gestures for Magnus to sit on the toilet, and he does, settling with a little wince as Charles flicks on the lights. And he's on him in a flash, taking off the bandage and realizing whatever wound underneath it had opened in the fall.

There's a hiss from Magnus as Charles applies a damp washcloth to the cut, cleaning scabbed blood and trying to make everything as sanitary as possible.

“This is really deep,” Charles says softly, his own voice surprising him in the quiet of the bathroom. “It might, uh, scar...you might need...you probably need stitches, really.”

“Well I don’t have stitches money,” was the shrug he got from Magnus in return. “Just, I dunno, give me some alcohol to slap on it.”

“No!” Charles’ eyes widen. “That’s just going to hurt you, you need something gentler.”

Magnus huffs and rolls his eyes. And despite him wanting isopropyl to “slap” on the deep cut, he ends up throwing a fit when the easier antiseptic is put on it. The cut is almost too deep and Charles finds himself worrying about this stranger’s wellbeing. That and the bruise on his face are concerning, a deep yellowing purple, indicating that there might be head trauma thrown in to the mix too.

“Fuck, this hurts,” Magnus announces. He looks up at Charles pitifully and watches as Charles gets gauze from the medicine cabinet.

A knock on the door makes both of them jump.

“Just a minute!” Charles calls through the door.

Magnus is patched up with a fresh bandage and the two slink out of the bathroom to see a line had formed while they were in there. Oh, that looks bad. Charles feels so embarrassed about that. He hopes it doesn’t look like _that_ of all things, he was just looking out for this guy. Magnus shoulders the guy who had knocked on the door and snarls at him, baring teeth like a dog, Charles shrinking against the wall for a second.

“You want a smoke?” he offers as he fishes in his leather jacket for a pack of cigarettes. Before Charles can even answer Magnus jerks his chin towards the door. “Let’s go outside.”

Despite having only met him less than an hour ago, Magnus was now the only person around Charles that he knew. So he followed him to the porch outside and leaned against the railing. The music was still loud but muffled by the walls and Charles finds himself far, far more relieved at the relative quiet and coolness and stillness of outside.

“What do you do?” Charles asks softly. He accepts the cigarette from Magnus and fishes in his pocket for his lighter. “For, uh, work and stuff…”

“I work at a grocery store,” Magnus replies tersely. “That’s gonna be over, soon.”

“Are you quitting?” he looks over at him and watches as the flame from his lighter illuminates his face. The oranges of the flame lit up the dark browns of Magnus’ eyes, and Charles finds himself staring for a moment longer.

“I’m gonna get famous,” he says with a chuckle. “I play guitar, and I am gonna start a band, and get famous. Like those assholes in there.”

“Oh!” Charles exclaims before choking on the smoke of his cigarette. When he collects himself, he continues. “Well...maybe I’ll get to hear you play, soon.”

Magnus laughs almost humorlessly and ashes his cigarette. The two stand in silence for a moment longer and Charles feels the wind rush through his hair. He should have put more product in it. Or something. He looks over at Magnus' hair and watches as curls that fell just below his shoulders bob and wave. He has pretty hair. There's a cowlick that bothers him, or bothers him as much as hair that is not his own could bother him, and his drunken, touchy brain fights the urge to push it into place.

"How do you know Pickles?" Charles asks instead. And winces, because he feels like he asked the girl that he was with the same question.

"Uh, my girlfriend knew a guy, who was a roadie for the band, and we all started talking to them and hanging out with them. We knew Tony first. And of course, uh, Garland," Magnus gestures vaguely and shrugs his shoulders as he talks. He pulls his jacket off and lets it hang over the railing of the porch to combat the smothering heat of the warm summer air. "And then they were like, oh we're in the area, and then told us that we were going to go to this party. And the timing was..."

Magnus shifts from foot to foot and touches the bandaging on his face.

"The timing was bad," he says in an oddly soft voice.

"Ohh. Does it have to do with the cut on your face? What happened, anyway?" Charles leans in closer to hear Magnus better.

"You ask a lot of questions. You a geek?" Magnus shoots back at him. "You a little pencil-necked geek? Aw, don't look at me like that, I'm fuckin' with you."

"I-I kind of am," Charles admits shyly. "I'm in law school."

Magnus barks with laughter and looks down at Charles incredulously.

"No, no, okay no, fuck that. How do you know Pickles? That's a way more important question," he laughs and elbows Charles in the side.

So, Charles explains the hard to believe and almost comical story of trying to sneak backstage to talk with Glass Sword to become their band manager, only to bump into Pickles. And for Pickles to invite him to a party instead of calling security. And Mangus nods along before sucking his teeth and snickering.

"He thinks you're cute. Hope you play for at least both teams," he flicks his cigarette off the side of the porch and grins.

"Wh-what?!" Charles sputters. His stomach drops.

"You didn't know that about Pickles?" Magnus raises his eyebrows at Charles and his smile broadens. "He cruised you."

"Cruised?!" he repeats.

"Yeah, cruised. That's what I said," he sticks his tongue out at Charles. "You want more drinks? I'm gonna dip in real quick."

"S-sure," Charles replies as a cool sweat breaks out over his brow.

Charles is left alone with his thoughts as Magnus darts back inside. He feels anxious, suddenly, and he finds himself sweating more. He dabs at his forehead with his forearm and he stares out into the city. There were lights turning on and off in the dimming light, palm trees swaying over manicured lawns, rolling hilltops of colored roofs. It was pretty. But Charles could never, even as a successful lawyer, imagine having this much money.

He hears the door slide open and he turns to see Magnus again with two beers in hand. He's not much of a beer guy but he'll work with this. Magnus didn’t have to get him anything to begin with.

"Girlfriend threw something at my face," Magnus announces suddenly as he cracked open the bottle on the railing.

"What did you say?" Charles asks.

"You asked about my face," he looks down at Charles. "Let me get that for you."

Magnus takes the bottle he gave to Charles back and pops the cap off the top from that one as well. Charles takes it and looks up at Magnus. And feels...pity? Anger? A general sadness that he can't place from hearing information that is shocking, and unfortunate, and something that he's not sure if he should be hearing or not.

"I was breaking up with her and just...swoosh," Magnus gestures vaguely, voice distressingly casual as he talks. Charles takes a deep drink from his beer and looks out into the city again. "So, yeah. That's what happened to my face."

Charles realizes that he hadn't told Pickles that. Charles was always told that he had "one of those" faces. That he was sweet and trustworthy. Maybe he just has “one of those” faces for Magnus too, and there’s something nonthreatening about his mousy demeanor that makes it easy for him to talk with him about this.

"God, I'm so sorry. Fuck..." he wheezes softly and finds himself drinking more of his beer than he even expected to down so quickly. "That's...that's awful, Magnus. I'm sorry."

"It's no big deal. Water under the bridge," Magnus leans and shrugs. "But, since you asked. Hey-"

Charles looks at him.

"What do you wanna do when you're a lawyer?" Magnus asks.

"Wh-what?" Charles can't help but repeat himself as he talks. He's not sure what Magnus thinks of him but he probably thinks that he's terribly boring. "Oh, uh, I want to work in music, actually! I want to do band management, or legal work, like copyright stuff. Too many bands out there get the short end of the stick and no money from royalties, you know? I wanna fix that."

"So, you want to fix the music industry?" he asks. "I like that. Good luck with that."

"And good luck with making it in the industry, period," he says with a warm smile.

He wishes that Sofia was around. She would be able to talk about things. She could come up with some kind of topic of conversation. Though knowing her, she would probably just do it to flirt with him. But that would be fine, wouldn't it? Magnus had mentioned having a girlfriend, and Charles was plain and boring, and he was tall and admittedly pretty gorgeous with that _hair_. Of course Sofia would be stupid over him, and of course he would go after Sofia.

Charles finds himself drunker than he expected to be tonight as time goes on. As their drinks are finished one of the two will go and fix another round or bring out more beers for them, the party going on without them inside of the house. He finally settles into a fold-out chair and tries to sit out some of his drunkenness, Magnus collapsing into the one next to him with a grunt.

"You come with anyone?" Magnus asks suddenly, craning his neck. "You seem way out your element, y'know?"

"A little bit...o-out of my element, at least. But I came with my friends," he gestured back to the house and shrugs his shoulders. "I dunno where they went though."

"I don't know where my friend went either, who the fuck knows. Hope she's having fun," he grins and looks up at the night sky. "Can't see the stars."

"Light pollution," Charles explains.

Magnus hums in recognition and they fall into silence again.

Charles finds himself almost drifting off to sleep until he hears the door slide open again.

"There you are!" Sofia crows, voice slurred and drunken, and Charles jumps upright. "Ohhh, my God! I thought I'd lost you!"

Sofia collapses into Charles' lap and wraps her arms around his necks, giving him a drunken, sticky kiss on the cheek. She points at another woman who joins the three of them and Charles watches as Magnus' face lights up.

"Baby!" Magnus exclaims with his arms open. "Oh, shit, come here!"

Skye - Charles thinks that her name is Skye - settles in Magnus' lap in turn. They look almost funny because Charles just knows he looks like he's too gay for words to have a pretty girl like Sofia in his lap, but Magnus looks right at home with a punk girl perched on his knees. And then his sluggish, drunken brain clicks into place.

That's his girlfriend.

He said he broke up with his girlfriend. And his girlfriend threw something at him. So why is his girlfriend here?

"I thought you said you were single," Charles' mouth finally catches up with his brain.

Magnus and Skye look at each other conspiratorially.

"I said I broke up with my girlfriend," Magnus explains as his hand settles on Skye's hip. "I didn't say I broke up with both girlfriends."

Oh.

Oh!

Sofia hoots in Charles' ear excitedly before she high-fives Magnus in a goofy display, but Magnus accepts it as happily as she offers it. Skye rolls her eyes but laughs too. And then there's Charles. Goofy, nerdy Charles with no boyfriend and no romantic prospects and no friends who stay for any extended period of time. Who sticks out like a sore thumb when he goes to parties like this.

"You got new bandages?" Skye asks quizzically, scratching at the gauze on Magnus' cheek.

"He patched me up," Magnus points at Charles.

"Oh, fuck, thank you!" Skye says sweetly and offers her hand for Charles to squeeze.

"N-no problem," he offers sweetly from behind Sofia's back. "He needed help, so I just helped him."

"Yeah, he's a helper. Got big plans," Magnus mumbles as he rests his head on Skye's shoulder. "I wanna go home, baby."

Skye kisses whatever of Magnus' hair that she can reach and pats the hand on her hip with one of her own, bangles merrily jingling on her wrist as she does. Magnus looks up at Charles again and he smiles as Skye helps him onto his feet. He shoots Sofia and Charles a lazy peace sign as he walks off into the dark, leaning on Skye as he does, the two weaving and giggling across the gravel.

"I hope they aren't driving," Charles comments.

"I thought she was hitting on me," Sofia says suddenly. "Like, did you see her fingernails?"

"They were...uh...black?" Charles looks up at her. He hadn't really noticed Skye's fingernails. Hell, he still wasn't entirely sure if her name was Skye or not.

"She had two short ones, on her right hand," she teases, holding her own up to show off the cropped nails on both of her hands. "Y'know? So they won't...scratch. Or catch on things."

"She might be. But I think it's good that they're going home. He needs a doctor. N-not a party," he shrugs his shoulders.

"Might find a Doctor Feelgood here. Speakin' of finding...we probably need to hunt down Roddy," Sofia stands up and pulls on Charles' wrists. "C'mon, Charlie."

Charles groans as he's heaved up out of the chair. The two of them walk inside, Sofia humming Motley Crue under her breath as she does, and they stumble inside. Roddy is absolutely lost in an ocean of bodies and music and sound that has somehow not gotten any better as the hours dwindled by. Sofia separates from Charles' side almost immediately with the Scooby Doo gang idea that splitting up will make it easier to find him. So Charles just floats, drunk and happy but tired, through the crowds.

Until a hand grabs his wrist and spins him around. Green eyes, shadowed with smudged purple glitter, pop into his field of vision almost immediately. A smiling face, framed by wild, teased red hair, stares at him and Charles finds himself smiling in turn.

"Found you!" Pickles announces. "You and that Magnus guy ran off and here I was thinking that you were going to go and have fun with him!"

"No, we-we just got fresh air," he says awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. "He left, too. With that girl."

"With, aw, fuck, what's-her-name? The goth chick? Of course," Pickles just flips his hair and tugs on Charles' face until the two of them are going up the steps again.

That was the VIP area it seems. But the VIP section seemed to have cleared out a little bit now. There were no other members of the band that Charles could see in that common area and there's a sinking in his stomach as he realizes that he is being taken further down the hall. There's a turn, and another turn, and suddenly Pickles is closing a door behind him.

"This is my room," he says with a wide smile. "While we’re here. Make yourself at home, Charlie.”

He turns on the record player to quiet the noise from downstairs. Charles finds himself on the bed as Pickles rummages around in his suitcases - so many suitcases, so many belongings to casually bring with him on tour - and looks at the room's decorations. They were expensive but meaningless. Paintings with lifeless landscapes and abstract splashes of colors. A sculpture of smooth white with gentle curves that had a lewd suggestiveness of breasts and hips. A rug, plush and brown, an imitation of a bear's pelt.

"What are you looking for?" Charles asks as he turns to Pickles to see him...changing. Oh, God. He turns his head back again and feels his face burn as he stares into his lap.

"A few things, few party favors," Pickles grins and there's a jingle of a belt buckle as it's done up. So at least he has pants on again. If Charles was more of a talker, he could send this encounter to a groupie gossip magazine. Pickles from Snakes 'n' Barrels doesn't wear underwear! Who knew!

There's a weight next to Charles as Pickles sits next to him and he looks up at him with a still flushed face.

"You nervous?" Pickles asks suddenly and he tips Charles' chin with his fingers. "You...you know why we're back here, right?"

Charles isn't dumb. He's just too awkward to properly describe. But he still nods.

"You good with that?" he asks with a smirk. Charles nods again. "Aw, c'mon, more enthusiasm! Enthusiasm is hot!"

"Y-yes!" Charles squeaks out, voice cracking in his sudden nervousness.

And Pickles laughs, and kisses him, and he tastes like alcohol and cigarettes and weed, and Charles melts. He's happier than expected and he doesn't even think when Pickles reaches for a few things in the pile of things on the other side of the bed. A small bottle is held in his hands and Charles peers at it curiously.

Pickles opens it, presses one of his nostrils shut and brings the bottle up under the open one, and inhales deeply. When he draws back he blinks and he coughs a little bit. And Charles continues to stare at it as it's handed to him.

"What's this?" Charles asks, looking down at the yellow and red bottle.

"Poppers," Pickles purrs in his ear. "Helps you, ah, relax. Gives you a big head rush. Makes things...better."

Teeth tease at his earlobe and Charles shivers.

"You don't have to, though. Figured it'd be rude not t'offer," the almost disguised Midwestern drawl worsens as time goes on, Charles notices. It's almost charming.

So Charles brings the bottle up to his nose, plugs the other nostril and inhales.

There’s a rush of blood to his skull as he inhales. There’s a strong smell to it that he can’t place, a chemical something that almost makes his head hurt, and he exhales quickly to try and even things out. His head feels light and his body feels hotter than before. A feeling of almost floating euphoria creeps across his skin and he feels like he’s fit to float off the bed, until the feeling of Pickles’ mouth on his neck lights a fire in his belly and drags him forcefully down to Earth.

Charles sits for a moment and lets out a shaking breath. Pickles cups his face in his hands and brings him in for another kiss. There's a bottle of vodka on the bedside table, and they have celebratory shots, and Charles thinks slowly but surely that he will forget most everything about this night. This is not the networking he wants to do as a businessman, but this is the networking that young party gay Charles wants.

So as his shirt is taken off and Pickles' thin fingers lace through the hair on his chest, Charles starts to let the less important things of the night leave his brain. As his back hits the bed he forgets the fact that he was looking for Roddy and should have been looking for Sofia too. As Pickles kisses his chest and stomach he forgets about how he wasn’t given a special invite to the party, that Pickles hadn’t sought him out, and could be doing this with anyone. When he feels sure, steady hands undo the buckle of his belt and the zipper of his jeans, he forgets the new people he met, the guy and girl, who he hopes made it home safe. Charles raises his lower half off the bed to let his pants and briefs be pulled off his hips and when he settles back and stares at the ceiling and feels warmth on his skin, he forgets about Lyle too.


	2. 1993

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit lost and unsure of where to go in life, Charles spends his spare time scouting for local acts, hoping to bump into the band that's "just right" and he can leave behind his regular, boring office-type job. And tonight might be his lucky night.

The music is loud. Which was unsurprising, it’s loud every week, pumped through speakers and boring in its plainness. There’s something to this music that makes it heavy, but not heavy enough and it drives Charles up the walls. But he comes here on the weekends to have fun. It’s fun. It’s something else to do and he’s not boring Charles Offdensen for a night or two.

The things that he deals with every week are fun to him but sometimes he needs a break from the realities of his life. Copyright cases, setting up for patents, things that are exhausting to him. And every week he tries here at this dirty dive bar. And the bands always have managers, somehow.

That didn’t make sense in Charles’ head. A diver bar full of start-up bands who all barely could open for each other, and they all have managers? It was almost stupid in how frustrating it was. So he sullenly sips at his drink and he watches the upcoming live act get ready. It’s fun to watch them startup. He likes to watch things like that. It’s boring for people who aren’t musicians usually, but he likes the technicalities behind it.

He wonders if he’s ever going to get that chance to get into the music industry. That’s his real deal, his real goal, and it’s still not working for him. It’s a side project. Not that he can play music - the guitar on his wall is ridiculously dusty at this point - and he finds himself desperately floundering more and more. He’s not that far out of law school. He can make it. It’ll be fine.

Charles stares as he looks up at the new band that gets up on stage finally. The music over the speakers stops and filters out to dead silence. The emcee gets out on stage and talks into the microphone. It’s loud and static, almost gibberish, and Charles doesn’t catch the name of the band at all. He sets his chin in his hand and sips at his drink again before he looks up at the stage as the lights turn on.

The stage is incredibly small for a five-piece act. Comically so. He looks and finds himself staring more than he expects. They sound...different. There are some genuine talent and skill lurking there. It’s intriguing compared to the sounds that he’s been hearing from other local acts. It’s fun. Heavy, brutal, dark. Charles smiles as he watches them, barely able to see who they are in the poor lighting, but he can hear them. And hearing is the important part.

They probably have a manager too, though.

With that much talent, he wouldn’t be surprised. He stands and finds himself handing off his suddenly empty glass to the bartender. She’s nice, one of the regulars, she kind of recognizes him to know that he doesn’t drink too much. But she still tries to leer at him until he gets another drink. Charles ends up slipping to the bathroom for a moment instead. Which is for the best as he looks at himself in the mirror. He’s on his third drink and is more surprised at his face than he wants. He rubs his eyes under his glasses and sighs before washing his hands, splashing water on his face and sitting in the bathroom for just a second. He lingers. He has no idea why he feels so anxious suddenly, like there’s a little prickle of electricity through the air, like some kind of weird magnetism has started to pull his body so it would be elsewhere.

So he takes another deep breath, blames it on the alcohol and by the time he comes back out to the bar, the first band is gone. The opening act is packing up, having played their allotted few songs for the night, and Charles is disappointed to have missed it. He can see them a bit better in the lowered lights and sees five men in total shuffling off with various pieces of gear. He hopes that they’ll play again soon.

The emcee announces the next band. Glass Sword. Charles cocks his head at that. It’s agonizingly familiar, stupidly so, and he kicks himself for not remembering the name. They probably have just played here before. They’re alright. Not the best thing that he’s ever heard in the world. It’s funny because their music is almost outdated, or at the very least sounds too light and mainstream for this bar. Like they should be singing about cherry pies and California girls, both of which seem terribly out of place subject matter for Depths of Humanity.

Charles shrugs and slips outside to grab a cigarette. The summer air is cool and refreshing on his skin, making him realize just how hot the bar was. He sits and wonders what was the matter with him again as he palms his jacket for his cigarette case. He wonders if he looks like a cop - if that’s why people don’t want to talk with him. Maybe he shouldn’t wear a blazer the next week he comes by. Who knows. He lights in his cigarette, taking in the heavy smoke that still chokes him up from time to time. He doesn’t even know why he smokes if it makes him cough.

The sound of something slamming gets his attention. He looks up to see a car, beat up and suspicious, with an open trunk. There’s the sound of someone slamming another door and Charles strains his eyes to see what he’s supposed to even be watching. Men? Five men? Putting things in cars? Oh! His drunk band clicks into place. The band from before.

He realizes that five are actually six and he wonders who the sixth was. Manager? Friend to help pack up their stuff? Someone from the bar? A new fan? Charles isn’t sure but he finds himself slinking a bit closer out of a curiosity he can’t sate. That magnetism strikes again. He hears a conversation that seems to be a bit...angry. It makes him nervous, so he hangs back to eavesdrop as if that would help make him less nervous.

“I know that you’ve been fucking us out of money, Troy,” a voice rings out over the concrete and dashes across the garbage cans.

Charles shivers. It sounds unpleasant already.

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to us, man,” the voice continues speaking. It was loud and twangy over the sounds outside and it cuts through Charles with its familiarity. “Troy, look at-look at me, man!”

“I’ve not been fucking you guys over! Why would I do that?” the second voice, presumably Troy, says with a high, nervous laugh. “N-Nathan, c’mon, tell him-”

“What do I have to tell him?” Nathan presumably says. “I’ve seen the math.”

“You can do math?” Troy shoots back.

“Leave him alone, dickhead! We’ve all been doin’ the fuckin’ math. Six people? Should not be getting the shit pay we’re getting for gigs like this. I’ve talked with Vaughn, you know Vaughn, owns this fuckin’ bar, Vaughn? He told me the lump sum he’s been giving us,” the first voice coughs suddenly and laughs. “You know what we found out?”

Charles feels angry at the conversation he’s overhearing. He feels more mad than he expected from him. This is exactly what he doesn’t want to hear. He finally steps out of the shadows for a moment and coughs. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s going to wing it. Six heads swivel around and look at him.

“Who the fuck are you?” Troy (from the sound of him) asks with a sneer.

“I was just outside,” Charles lifts his cigarette as if that was an explanation as to why. “Get some fresh air. A-and, I, uh, I..I heard…”

“You didn’t hear shit,” Troy spits.

“I’m a lawyer,” Charles finally says. He looks over at the band. “Do you have a contract with him or anything like that? A written one?”

“Charles?!”

It was the first voice. That heavy twang, a Midwestern twang, and Charles’ eyes focus in the low light. His mouth falls open in surprise, he finds his heart skipping excitedly in his chest and he smiles.

"Pickles?" he says softly.

“Charles!” Pickles repeats as he moves to stand by him. “Oh, thank fuckin’ Christ, dude. Ohhh my God! You fuckin’ made it, huh? Made it through law school and-”

Pickles has suddenly wrapped his arm around Charles’ shoulders and made a gesture with his other hand. The band and Charles slink off closer to the wall and as Troy makes a move to follow, one of the guys (one of the shockingly tall ones), lunges and fakes him out to make him stay in place.

“What is happening with...with this?” he asks softly to Pickles. He realizes he’s suddenly been surrounded in an odd little ring of men, all staring at him expectantly. Mostly staring down at him.

Why were so many of them so tall?

“Well, Troy is our manager. And is an asshole,” Pickles explains with a roll of his eyes.

“Soon to be ex-manager,” one of the other guys says. Charles recognizes the voice. Nathan, he assumes. “If he have any of our fuckin’ ways. Where did you find this jackass, Skwisgaar, I swear-”

“Don’t asks me, he saids he was goods at...at you know...managaskings,” Skwisgaar says with one of the heaviest accents Charles has ever had the privilege of hearing.

“We don’t have a written contract with him. He just books us gigs and we said we’d give him some money, like one half of what we all get, y’know?” Pickles says under his breath. “Like...he gets 50% and we all take the rest home for us, since we all like live together and shit anyway. You know?”

“Ohh, I am...sorry to hear that,” it escapes Charles faster than he can catch his tongue. It sounds ruder than he means. “I don’t know what to say...because you can’t...can’t sue for that sort of thing. You know?”

He looks over at Nathan helplessly, as if that will help his case. There are two of the members who are still quiet, the tallest and the second-shortest, both interesting looking in their own right. But if they don’t speak, Charles pays them no mind.

“Look,” Charles sighs. “You can fire him but I don’t know why...you guys are looking at me like-like this. I-I-I don’t...I can’t help...legally.”

Nathan frowns and his eyebrows knit together in thought.

"He doesn't know that?" he rumbles quietly into his chest.

Charles smiles. Catches on quickly.

"You aren't...wrong," he agrees.

"Is it illegal to lie like that?" one of the quiet members, the baby-faced one with a lisp, whispers. "About money?"

"He's already lyin' about our money," Pickles snaps back.

"And there's no judge," Charles shrugs. "I'm not, ah, on the clock. So I can lie."

"Well...go lies for us," Skwisgaar gestures vaguely with his hands. "We would really appreskiates it."

Charles nods and turns to the scene they had abandoned. Troy leaned against the car smoking, cutting his eyes at the group as they approached.

“What, you gonna threaten to sue?” Troy sneers.

Charles is going to say something. But he doesn’t know what. He realizes he’s lost, and he is a terrible liar. But before he can even open his mouth there’s the sound of Pickles talking, swooping in valiantly as he stands by Charles’ side, arm still slung around his shoulders.

“Yeah, man!” Pickles says with a cocky grin. “We’ve been talkin’ with our, uhhhh...new legal rep here! And he’s gonna fuck you up, you know that, right?”

"That's right," Charles manages.

"Gonna eviscerate you in court," Pickles adds. "Gonna get your ass in a fuckin'...fuckin'...witness stand! You're gonna get eaten alive in front of a judge, y'know?"

Charles has, in his legal career, worked in an office only.

He looks over at Pickles first, and then at Troy, but he nods. It feels odd and dirty. Troy flushes a dark, angry red and he looks at Charles with an absolutely venomous look. He wants to shrink away from everything. He can't help but want to try and hide away in situations like this. But he has five other guys on his side and there are three of them that look like they could hold their own, and he knows Pickles can hold his own. So that’s something good, right? He would have help in a fight, right?

"You fucking assholes!" Troy finally shouts. "You can't do shit! You don't have a contract with me! I own your asses, you know! I have so much shit and dirt on you, I could send all of you to fucking jail!"

"Are you gonna? For real?" the lispy one says with a tremble to his voice. Charles can feel someone nudge him behind his back. "I-I mean, what are you gonna do about it?"

"I won't send you to jail, nah," Troy waves his hand and flicks his cigarette into the concrete. “Just gonna get your asses in some other way.”

"We want the money we're owed, for just tonight," Pickles says confidently and puffs out his chest. "All of the money, really. You don't get any money for tonight. You've gotten enough from us."

Troy growls and walks up to the group. Charles doesn't want to shrink away but he finds himself doing that a bit. He shivers as Troy gets near him. There's something odd with this that doesn't sit well with him. It fits, but it doesn't fit at the same time, and Charles feels like what he's doing is wrong but...isn't.

He's doing something right.

"I'm gonna fuck you up, you know?" Troy says with his eyes locked on Charles.

Charles does flinch at that. There's a sudden scuffle, boots on concrete, Troy yells as he falls to the ground. A big form is in front of the group and Troy is on the ground bleeding, clutching a bleeding nose.

"Give us the stupid money, you jackass!" Nathan spits above him.

Charles blinks. Oh. Okay.

"Give it!" Nathan barks again, delivering a kick to Troy's side with heavy boots. "Come the fuck on, man, cough it up!”

"O-okay!" Troy coughs out, sending a spray of blood into the air as he does. "Let me get...get my wallet."

Charles watches between Nathan's feet as Troy gets out his wallet and pulls out a few bills. Nathan snatches them up and growls in frustration before kicking Troy again.

"Get out!" Nathan yells. Another kick. "Go!"

Charles feels like what he is encouraging is, at the very least, assault and extortion. But he'll keep his lips shut. If Troy does have anything on the group of them to send them to jail, he wonders if he can find them good legal representation. Depending on what it was, of course. Even he had his limits.

Troy stands up and rubs his face with another sputtering cough. He looks down the dark street and Charles watches as he goes down the road with a stumble. There's the sound of a motorcycle revving and Charles turns to look at Pickles. He's sweating and he's not sure why as he shivers.

“Goddamn, Nate,” Pickles laughs. “What did you get?”

Nathan hands him the bills. Pickles licks his thumb and quickly starts to count. And he counts again. And again. He looks up at Nathan and smirks.

“This is way more than what we’re owed, this is like...all of his cash, dude,” Pickles holds up the wad of cash and waves it.

Okay. So Charles just watched them rob someone.

But also, that Troy guy had been robbing them, so he’s not sure it's entirely unfair for that to happen. It’s karma. That’s how he justifies it to himself. Karma. It’s karma as Pickles begins to divide it up and gives each man a stack of cash. He even hands out a few bills to Charles.

“Our new finder’s fee,” teases Pickles, sticking out his tongue. “Goddamn, how you been, Charles?”

“You know him?” Nathan asks as he wipes his hand off on his shirt.

"Yeah, man, he's an old friend. Knew him in the late '80s for a bit. We stopped talking like three years ago, just y'know, all my stuff," Pickles waves it off as if a very publicly known overdose was just stuff. Charles smiles shyly and rubs the back of his neck.

"So, are you gonna be our new manager?" the youngest asks suddenly. "Or like, our lawyer?"

"Uh..." Charles pauses. Scratches his nose nervously. "I-"

"It would be really cool if you were," Pickles says with a shine to his eyes. "Please Charlie? You said...you said you wanted to! When we talked!"

He knows Pickles knows. They talk to him about this sort of thing back in the day. Charles presses his finger to his lips in thought and he looks at the group of expectant faces around him.

“You do need a new manager,” he finally admits.

Pickles hoots and claps the back of his shoulder.

“But I’ll write a contract down first, and we can talk things out. On a Monday or something, okay?” Charles laughs. “I...I don’t know the rest of your friends, Pickles! I-I have to know-”

“Well-l-l-l, we have Nathan Explosion here. Our muscle and singer. There’s our rhythm guitarist, Skwisgaar Skwisgelf. Our bassist, William Murderface,” Pickles points at himself finally and smiles. “And Pickles! I play drums now. And that guy there is, uh, our lead guitarist. Ma-”

“Magnus Hammersmith,” he interrupts Pickles as he talks.

It’s the first time that the man has spoken it at all. He’s the tallest, most odd-looking out of the group, and Charles realizes that his head comes up to his shoulders. He has a wide smile with crooked teeth and is holding out his hand expectantly, the only one to do so. Charles takes his hand and all he can think of is how cold his hands are, and how weak his grip is, and how vicious the shake is.

“And I’m Charles...Charles Offdensen,” his mouth is dry, and he’s not sure why, and he finds himself looking away for a moment.

Well. He walked into being a manager like he was told he wasn’t going to. It’s funny how things work.

“Oh, uh, there’s gonna have to be ground rules when I manage you guys,” it’s a light tease but he can’t help but set up boundaries. “No...no robbing any more people. Because that’s technically what that was.”

A little mumble of agreement. At least that was settled. They seemed like they would be willing enough to listen to him.

"And Nathan?" he looks at the singer with a little smile.

"Yeah?" he shoots back.

"Try not to punch any more people, okay?"

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for everyone's patience when they have heard about this project for months now - people who have encouraged us, and talked with us about ideas, and people who have just been excited for it! Even if you haven't heard of this before and are just discovering it now, thank you for wanting to take the time to want to read! - ggwynbleidd
> 
> We have been working on this since July, and it's a huge labor of love from the both of us! So we hope that you enjoy and are just as hyped up for it as we have been with getting everything edited and put together! - metalitaph


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